


He is Soundless From Afar.

by bad besties for life (doubleinfinity)



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man/Deadpool - Joe Kelly (Comics)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Body Image, Character Study, Crime Fighting, Cuddling & Snuggling, Deadpool IDOLIZES Spiderman, Falling In Love, Feelings, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Hand Jobs, Humor, Identity Reveal, Loss of Limbs, M/M, Oral Sex, Photography, Pining, Porn With Plot, Resolved Sexual Tension, Rough Kissing, Secret Identity, Self-Hatred, Spideypool - Freeform, Spooning, Top Peter Parker, all my random references are stupid and left-field as fuck, always the bantering, bet u thought that was gonna say virginity, deadpool is always sad, get ready you fools, majorrr character study, nursing back to health, together, wade hates peter parker, wade kills peter parker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-02-22
Packaged: 2019-10-30 15:45:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17831468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doubleinfinity/pseuds/bad%20besties%20for%20life
Summary: Three part story.100% based on teamup comics.Every time Deadpools wants to kiss him, Peter's spideysense starts going off.He should hate Wade for killing him.  He should swing away and never see him again after what he did.Instead, he starts getting drunk off the feeling.





	1. part one.  witness.

**Author's Note:**

> Second time writing this pair, I wanted to take a more serious approach to Deadpool (even though he's still a snarky, witty fuck). Again, we're contextually floating through the Joe Kelly comics here. Wade is in love with Spidey. Peter can be hard to read.

Deadpool is made for alleyways and rooftop gardens. He blends in with shadows, mixes well with alcohol, fits perfectly between the pages of old photo albums.

It’s his goddamn fucking mouth that ruins everything.

He laughs obnoxiously and says things he regrets. He cracks jokes crasser than politicians with Twitter accounts and blurts #thefeels so often that he needs a muzzle to screen every sentence. It’s the voices in his head, maybe. He can’t always hear himself over them. He can’t filter every single thought that demands to be spoken out loud.

Everything is calmer from afar. From where he’s sitting, Spidey is just a tiny blur of color on the backdrop of morning. He swings through the air from web to web, patrolling on to some unknown destination. He even does a little somersault-thing for fun, even though no one is around to see it.

Deadpool sees it.

Wade’s thoughts are buzzing. His bones are humming. He’s still a mess, but this far away, at least he can’t fuck things up for Spidey. That will change. He’s fucking _sad_ to know the inevitability of it.

But look at that...

Spidey is graceful as ever. The man literally swings into the sunrise, burning against the shape of the sun. Wade’s eyes water behind the mask and he pulls it off, wringing it between scarred hands.

Damn, he loves that spider’s voice.

It quiets his mind. Even from afar, on a rooftop that’s spinning from a night of curb stomping and binge drinking, Wade’s screaming thoughts go soundless in the vacuum of his hero.

-

Three steps that he executes unthinkingly: position, hold, click.

The scene holds. A flash of light explodes through the streets of Queens.

Peter rolls his shoulders and glances down at the camera’s display, mentally yelling at himself to relax. When he was on the clock, he had to be covert about the whole thing. _Step one: position_ was never about the rule of thirds; it was the exact, discreet spot on his sternum where he had to hold the camera if he wanted to keep its presence on the downlow.

His Bugle camera had been a crappy silver box that immortalized shots of grainy alleyway scenes with built-in political implications. Its features: zoom, flash (on the job? he would never), and a setting that coated everything in a sepia-tinted sheen. The results were not unlike the quality of his prom photos, but rendered in newspaper ink, quality had been achingly low on the priority list.

But man. His personal camera is another creature entirely. A robot made of elongated lenses.

He can peer onto rooftops, through windows, even down into the sewers if he wants to. There’s infrared and night vision and that good old flash- which certainly _feels_ damn good to finally be able to use at night.

It’s been half a decade since he worked for the Bugle. He has no idea what happened to that old digital camera, and although his shots were all editorialized by cheap, sensational journalism, he still appreciates the way it taught him to see the world.

So ultimately, these pictures aren’t for anything. They’re just for him.

In any case, he doesn’t have a social media account to slather with cityscapes, and his apartment has a rule putting tape on the walls. He just keeps ‘em in digital folders organized by date on the computer. They give a context to his days, a kind of visual diary. God knows this city changes faster than he can keep up with.

But then there are things like this: an abandoned spider web, still glistening with evening rain, impossibly small and intricate, woven between a fire hydrant and a wall.

Who will see this?

Not the cars rumbling past, kicking dirty rain into the gutters. Not the tired businesspeople walking home, who might step through it without ever realizing it existed. Not even nature, which will dismantle it in a matter of hours.

But Peter sees it.

Crouching down, he adjusts the lens and takes a photo, the flash lightning-bright in this dark concrete world.

With a hand running through his damp hair, he looks down at the display screen. Heavy beads of water hang off the delicate strings of silk, suspended like flies, captured in sharper detail than his naked eye could ever perceive. There are things like this hidden all over the city, and sometimes it takes a still image to realize how special they are.

Peter will never find them all, but he still knows they are there.

He’s slinging the camera back around his neck when from up above, a slash of movement catches his eye.

A blur of red darts from one rooftop to the next, barely detectable from this distance. On instinct, he raises his camera and jams his eye against it, flaring the lens way out to zoom in on the figure. But the shape is already filling the viewfinder.

Deadpool comes crashing into Peter’s life, breaking his camera.

-

He feels gravel crunch against his scalp, head pounding from the collision. Peter blinks, disoriented, but his veins are already flaring with adrenaline. It yanks him back into full consciousness, just a side-effect from being a radioactive superhero.

With a gasp, he rolls onto his back and looks up to find Deadpool on top of him, both hands clamped around his neck.

“All alone tonight, Parker?”

The words are rough out of the merc’s mouth, backed by a healthy spoonful of resentment, and, (suspiciously, albeit characteristically) a lilt of amusement.

Peter is pinned to the pavement, his camera shattered beside him. He glances at it for a mournful second but then his eyes are darting back and forth over Deadpool’s mask at a breakneck speed, wildly taking him in. Shit, shit, does he know? _Does he know?_

Wade notices the change, cocking his head in curiosity. He leans back and loosens his grip.

“Hmm?” he considers, pressing a finger to Peter’s chest. “What is it- do you _know about me_? Is this about how mind-fuckingly close I am to your beloved Spidey? And I’m not talking about the color schemes of our spandex.”

Peter’s entire body relaxes, letting go of a huge breath. So he doesn’t know.

Wade doesn’t see anything beyond the 30-year-old business man he’s prattled on and on about to Spidey while both their identities were hidden safely behind their masks. Somehow, Peter always thought one look into his eyes and Wade would instantly see him for who he was. They know each other so well, he just thought… But he didn’t. He doesn’t know.

It’s safe to assume, then, that he doesn’t know that like Spiderman, Peter is agile as all hell. He takes advantage of the ignorance.

In a flash, he’s crawled through all four of Deadpool’s limbs, legs and arms scrambling for leverage. He finds it, pushing backwards off the ground before making a break for it.

“Slippery thing,” he hears Deadpool praise threateningly, and when he turns back the merc is rising to his feet, eyes gleaming with dark delight. He reaches for the handles jutting out behind his shoulders and flicks his wrists to his sides, offensively double-wielding his long, thin blades.

A pang of betrayal thrums through Peter, sharp enough to stop him mid-flee.

He can separate his identity from Spidey’s in this moment, he really can. It’s not the fact that Wade is turning on him, or even the lustful look in his eyes that lets everyone know this slaying will be a pleasure. It’s the way Wade’s breathing shallows, the way his attention focuses, in this moment before a kill. Peter knew this was his nature. He _knew_ it, he always fucking knew it. And still he was childish enough to believe he could change it.

Then, to his surprise, Wade drops both katanas onto the ground.

“How ‘bout some fisticuffs instead, Parker?” he asks, grinning as he steps forward.

Peter’s spidersense tells him to flee. His human instinct asks him to stay.

Wade watches as Peter turns and crouches into a fighting stance, and damn, he can’t help but think _that’s a Spidey pose if I’ve ever seen one. Spiderman trained him in combat._

In that moment, he makes up his mind: he’s not going to kill Parker tonight. It’s about time he gives Spidey’s optimism a chance.

Spiderman’s confidence in Parker is un-fucking-wavering. So he’s gonna assess the sitch. See who Parker is up close and personal. Give him an opportunity to illuminate Deadpool as to what redeeming quality somebody with his company’s track record could possibly offer.

If he can do that, Deadpool swears he’ll call off the hit.

He _wants_ to call it off. For Spidey’s sake. He wants to be wrong about this.

“What do you want?” Peter calls weakly, fists up, as Deadpool stalks towards him. The words sound stilted even to his own ears. He knows what Deadpool wants. “Money? Legal rep? To be Parker Industries’ mascot?”

Deadpool’s boots pick up loose bits of wet gravel, each slow step crunching them beneath his feet. He stops, looking Peter up and down.

“What I want? A bagel, that’s for sure, served with a steaming black pot of unsweetened honesty.” He opens his arms in an easy shrug. “Just tell me why Parker Industries is treating people like lab rats. Think of it as cathartic, eh? The streets are your confessional.”

Peter stands still, all the blood pooled in his fists. Wade won’t listen to Spiderman, but maybe he’ll listen to Parker.

“Parker Industries doesn’t experiment on people,” he speaks steadily, hoping that maybe the eye contact will somehow get through to him. Hoping maybe it will ring true even though Wade won’t know why, because his brain will put two and two together even if it doesn’t tell him what it equalled.

“Hurting people goes against everything I stand for,” he adds, impassioned, “I would never do that.”

Deadpool’s getting more annoyed with every word. Spidey is only eating this guy’s bullshit because it’s well-garnished, because Spiderman is a fucking angel on earth, and his naivety is exploitable. And Wade absolutely fucking hates anyone who would take advantage of the one quality that puts Spiderman above every other useless, wasteful person on this planet.

“Come on, Petey,” Wade purrs with impatience. “Listen, I’ve done some shitty things too. We all have. You can tell me.”

“You’re wrong,” Peter responds, snarling. Fine. If his words mean nothing, then they mean nothing. He’s had it up to here with this. “You have no idea what the hell you’re talking about. Leave me alone.”

Wade sighs. This isn’t going well.

His original goal: get Peter to admit it, hold him for a sec while he sobbed for the integrity of his soul, and then make a plan to correct the error of his ways. But Parker is a through-and-through bad guy. Wade feels bad for Spidey, utterly brainwashed by this guy (probably the doey eyes), but the pleasure he’s gonna get when he knocks out some teeth quickly smooths that over.

“Uh-huh,” he taunts angrily, closing the radius between them. “Then tell my eyes what they _really_ saw in there. Tell me what it means when you’ve got a guy dangling from the ceiling with his eyeballs hanging out. That’s not torture?” A low hum fills his throat. “Baby, your gaslights just lead me back home.”

Peter steps back, raising his fists defensively. If Wade wants to fight, he’s got no problem with swinging back. He’s fucking pissed. This is supposed to be his friend.

His _friend_ lunges forward and punches him in the face.

Peter snarls, ripping back. With a palm against his cheek he rushes forward, grabbing for Deadpool’s neck. He’s too upset for coherent thought. Without his web shooters, he has little to no leverage, but he goes for it anyways, clawing and beating at the older with all of his frustration.

He knees Wade in the chest and digs his nails into his throat, letting go of an angry cry. The older grabs him by the shoulders and flings him back, throwing him to the ground. He lands on the sidewalk with a defeated mewl.

When he opens his eyes again there’s a gun in his face.

“One last time, Parker,” Wade snarls, cocking it threateningly. “What is the experimentation for? Why are you doing this to people?”

“Wade,” he rasps, running his hands frantically through his scalp, covering his face. “I know what you went through. I know it’s a trigger for you. But I’m not experimenting on people. I’m not.”

Deadpool’s mind twists in confusion. What? And did Parker just say his name?

He clears his head by putting a bullet in Peter’s face.


	2. part two.  skewered.

Wrist flexed, Spidey leaps over the group of thugs.

His body is arched at the cross-section between a dancer and a sugar glider, poised to activate every joint. On invisible wings, he captures his enemies in a net of webbing and then lands on his feet without injuring so much as a pinky toe.

See? Good as new.

He puts his hands on his hips (powerpose. he’s earned it) and watches the six henchmen squirm beneath the net. His hands slip down to his sides.

Hell. He’s gotta get these guys behind bars before they kill each other and he _does_ end up with a murder on his hands.

He’s getting ready to throw them over his shoulder like a sack of jailbirds when his spidersense kicks in, transmitting a host of warning signals up his spine. He whirls around, fists at the ready.

“Oh.”

Half a yard away, Deadpool is lounging on the roof of a low city building, resting on his stomach with his head in his hands. When Spidey notices him, he cocks his head and winks, then pulls up his mask to mouth “Good work, Webs” with an emphatic point at the cronies.

Peter relaxes at the sight of him. Not a threat, then, but thanks anyways, body.

_Wait- back up._

_See that superhero? Completely not dead? And for what it’s worth, not immediately disemboweling the guy who deaded him? That’s me! You’re probably wondering how I got in this situation._

The answer: not easily.

In the months following being shot in the face and subsequently having Wade drag him out of the underworld, they’ve brawled it out. Verbally. Physically. Metaphysically. (Being a disembodied soul was weird).

A very, very schooled Wade has apologized, both profusely and demonstratively. And yeah, the self-sacrifices and commitment to a no-killing regime has meant a lot to Peter, to politely say nothing of the times he’s gotten down on the floor to kiss his spandexy feet.

For a while, Peter didn’t think anything was going to thaw him out. Even Wade’s undeniable sadness started to grate on his nerves.

But finally he eased up the night that Wade found him brooding alone on top of a bowling alley. The man was limp, wet with whisky, and crying. This time he didn’t try to explain himself, just said how sorry he was, and Spidey told him, “You owe Parker the apology, Wade, not me.”

And then Deadpool had _showed up_ on the administration floor of Parker Industries, trapped in a headlock by Peter’s guards, begging for a chance to apologize.

Crazy motherfucker. Absolutely fucking unhinged.

Peter almost told him who he was right then and there.

Instead he came by the apartment as Spidey an hour later, wielding a breakfast burrito, and told Wade that Peter forgave him.

The contempt has stopped his weighing his body down, and now when he looks at Deadpool, he no longer sees a gun pointed at his forehead. In a way, he even understands what Deadpool thought he was doing. Peter will never understand that crooked sense of morality, but maybe he gets how someone like Wade has to live his life that way. And it only took his own death and a million bloody noses to get there.

...But then why is his spideysense currently going off like he’s about to be hit by a truck?

Wade hops off the building and lands on the ground, and Spidey’s instinct immediately backs off.

“Hey Spideybabe, what’s with the look?”

Peter exhales, relieved as the tension drains away. He shrugs. “Not much. You wanna use your hands instead of your mouth and help me get these guys to the station?”

He hasn’t even finished the sentence before his spine lights back up like Rockefeller Center on December 1st.

Usually when this happens his feet are already in motion, jerking him away from some danger he didn’t know was there. Or he whips around and is backhanding an assailant before he realizes why he’s doing it.

The weird thing is, right now his body isn’t telling him to do anything. He’s just feeling those instinctual pulses of _warning, warning, warning_ flash through his nerves.

“Course, Spidey,” Deadpool grins, bending down to tug at one of the webs, testing its hold. “What’s their damage?”

The spidersense shifts off again, gone as though controlled by some light switch being flipped arbitrarily.

“Uh, looked like an old fashioned robbery,” he says, trying to shake it off. “They were casing the building, probably planning something for tonight.”

Wade looks back up at him and the buzz shoots through him like another thousand volts. He clamps a hand against the back of his neck, trying to hold himself together.

“You know what? I’m just gonna call it in, is that cool?” He grins sheepishly, turning away, but the warnings keep flashing through his brain.

“Um, yeah,” Deadpool says with an eye roll, “Literally everything you do is cool, Spidey. I was watching you bag those guys up and you were like zroom-zroom-zroom with your wrists and your body was like “spine? What spine?” Man. Wish I could do that. Now even my fucking bullets are lame, thanks to you.” He snaps his fingers. “Ohh, _that’s_ why you’re making me celibate on the murder front. You want to look like the only badass- you know, I’m onto you, Spideyboy. I’ll have you know I’d look good with a _nerf_ gun on my hip.”

Peter looks at him blankly, then just nods. He laughs.

“God, Wade, do you ever shut up?”

With levity, one voice in Wade’s head gives an affirming “nope” while the other chews him out so bad he wishes it would gnaw on his voice box to appease the oral fixation.

“You should make me, Webs,” he offers instead, a sharp grin fixed below his mask.

Peter freezes.

Woah, okay. _That_ felt like a threat. The spideysense definitely _reacted_ to that.

“I’m not gonna make you do anything, Wade,” he murmurs, flustered, and dispels a web to the top of the building, “Except for call 911 for me. I know you keep a flip phone in one of those pouches. So… see ya.”

And then he’s swinging away from the scene, his spidersense quieting with every breath he puts between him and Deadpool.

-

Spidey swings back into danger that night, on edge and physically craving the need to be exhausted.

He ends up in a warehouse, crawling on top of the rafters and peering through the slats at some kind of gross looking creature. It looks like an undulating mud pile with limbs sticking out of it, and Peter’s kind of worried about what that means for him. Somebody’s keeping it here under lock and key, but probably just until it grows big enough to release.

He nearly leaps out of his skin when someone comes crawling up beside him on their hands and knees, presence only forewarned by a hushed “twice in one day?”

“Wade,” he hisses quietly, turning to see the man clinging to an adjacent beam. “Why are you here?”

“I do nightly patrols too. I didn’t know you had dibs on this tip.”

Spiderman looks down, grimacing as the unctuous mass slurps up a human arm.

“I’m actually glad you’re here. What the hell is that thing?”

Shuffling around, Deadpool draws his katanas and folds them beneath his arms. “No clue. Any clauses about killing things that don’t have faces?”

With gritted teeth, Spidey turns his head. “Unfortunately, I think this one might have dozens of faces… but like… swallowed inside it,” he whispers.

“No sentience, no mercy,” Wade growls.

“Wade,” Peter murmurs, resting on his elbows. He looks at Deadpool on the adjacent beam, lit from below by the ugly fluorescents of the empty warehouse. His hearts softens out at the sight of him. “If Parker had been what you thought he was, I would have helped you get him arrested. Even though I cared about him.”

The secret identity thing makes for confusing sentiments, but he hopes Wade gets the message. It’s not entirely selfless though. Something about Wade is fucking with the calibration of his spidysense, and he needs it settled now before it causes a problem.

Deadpool seems to go into his thoughts for a while, silently studying the quicksand creature.

Logically, he knows that Spidey is trying to tell him that he trusts him. He should be filled with excitement at the prospect, but one of the internal voices spins the meaning relentlessly.

_You’re one of the bad men, you’re bad, you’re bad, and even if Spidey was blinded with love for you, he’d take you down in a second if he knew the extent of the things you’ve done._

Finally, he sighs.

“I respect that you believe in the system and all that, Spidey, I really do,” he admits, “But guys at the top don’t go quietly. They make shitstorms so thick, you end up losing more people doing due process than if you just opened fire yourself.”

“Sometimes open fire yourself and you’re wrong,” he counters, and ow it’s still fucking sore to touch the subject. He still has nightmares where he wakes up in a sweat, seeing Deadpool’s gun in his face. No living person is supposed to know what it feels like to be shot in the head.

He supposes he and Wade have that in common now.

Deadpool’s head is churning again, filled with so much competing praise and chastisement that he has no idea if he did god’s work or made a big fucking mistake. There are nights that he bashes himself in the brain just to get them to shut up, even one very melodramatic instance where he gave _himself_ a third eye made of smoking metal. But if Spidey is telling him he did the right thing, he’s listening. That’s a voice he can follow.

He swallows. “So, do you wanna get the first hit in, or…?”

Spidey leaps to his feet, hunching over the beam.

“Yeah, spot me?” he checks, flashing a look to Wade before jumping down and throwing out a web.

Things go fast.

The monster notices him immediately and roars to life, mound after mound of sludge rolling in over itself. Spidey’s sense kick back in in the normal way, alerting him to soggy fists that reach out for him, telling him what bullets to dodge when Deadpool jumps in with his revolvers swinging. The rubber bullets don’t do anything other than get eaten though, so Wade takes to his blades instead.

Peter has to admit, it’s fun when it’s the two of them. They make a good team.

Spiderman is cunning and evasive, letting the creature chase him around the floor until it’s spread thin enough for Wade to chop it into pieces.

There’s... carnage, to say the least. Body parts ooze out of the mass, giving it the vibe of a giant human compost pile. It’s gross enough to make him gag under the mask.

“I think fire,” Wade suggests when the monster just gathers its lost substance back up again, reabsorbing its chunks of flesh.

“Fire is excellent,” Spidey agrees disgustedly, dodging an attack. A puddle of blood sucks at his feet and he barely swings away before getting swallowed. He feels the goo cling to his feet, peeling away with a sucking sound, as he whips upward and grabs onto the ceiling.

He laughs out loud at the rush, finally feeling recalibrated. The senses are working normally again.

Gentle, he lowers himself back onto the floor, landing beside Wade.

“Welcome back, Webs. Did you know fire is my specialty?” 

Wade grins, pulling out a tiny flare bomb. He flips it around in his hand, then jumps back when a sludgy tentacle sweeps across the floor, trying to knock them off their feet. He whips his head around, scanning the room.

“There!” he exclaims, pointing to a pile of crates on the perimeter of the unit. “Get us behind those boxes when I say when, okay Spides?”

Hunched down, Spidey gives an affirming nod. Wade pulls the pin and tosses it into the mass, yelling as the ball is sucked down into the pile of mud.

There’s a gulping sound, like a rock sinking into quicksand. Spidey grabs Wade around the waist and throws a web like it’s a hookshot, yanking them across the warehouse.

The creature rumbles and then detonates with a screaming hiss right as they hit the wall and tumble safely behind the tower crates. His ears ring, his face burns, as orange light and splatters of sludge hit the walls.

“Holy shit,” Wade breathes, peeking around the edge of the boxes. The monster is strewn in a low-tide mess of muck and body parts, its oily substance on fire all around the room. He whips back around the crates, shielding himself from the disgusting imagery.

“That was crazy,” he squeals, exhilarated. “Better than lighting a firework in a box of playdoh.”

Peter isn’t surprised that Wade has done that.

He opens his mouth and starts choking.

The smoke filling the room has finally hit capacity. They tear their masks over their noses, gasping for breath. The sprinkler system rears to life, sending water spluttering down.

“Let’s get out here,” Peter suggests between coughs, glancing over at the unit’s exit.

Wade nods, yanking his mask off and tucking it into his belt. “No roasted spider on the menu tonight,” he wheezes, tossing Spidey over his shoulder as he rushes at the door. He crashes through it with the force of his unencumbered shoulder, thrusting them into the wider belly of the warehouse.

Coughing, Peter crawls down from Wade’s shoulders.

The cold, damp atmosphere of the inner building tastes so sweet that Peter has to stop and put his hands on his knees, gasping for breath. He can see fire flickering through the doorway behind him, smoke pouring out from the enclosed space.

He laughs even though it hurts his lungs.

“Jesus, Wade, I don’t think protecting the city from freakazoid monsters is supposed to be this fun,” he manages, pulling off his gloves to run a hand over his exposed chin, checking that everything’s okay. “It’s supposed to be a burden, not a carnival ride.”

Wade leans back against the wall, eyes darting through the shadows of the warehouse. “You do so much good, Spidey,” he comments, “Let the good do you for once.”

Peter suddenly feels that same jolt shudder through him, throwing him completely off balance. He straightens right up, the instinctive signals thrumming through him.

What the _hell_? He thought he fixed this. The spidersense definitely did not feel like this five seconds ago, when it was stopping him from getting sucked into quicksand.

This is different. This is… nice.

He leans into it and his head swims, like he’s drunk and in love, and suddenly realizes that he’s leaned in so close that he can feel the body heat coming off Deadpool’s skin. The man’s eyes sweep over him, looking at his lips.

He makes a tiny sound of want; Wade grabs him by the face and turns them around, throwing Spidey against the wall.

Peter knows why Wade does it, and it sets his heart on fire. On the off chance that Wade’s reading this wrong, he’s giving Peter an opportunity to turn it into a fight.

He hits the surface and bounces back, but instead of throwing a punch, he wraps his arms around Wade’s chest.

Their lips meet in a hungry crash, mouths open, panting. With the weight of his body, Wade rushes forward until he has Spidey pinned to the wall, chest pressed to chest. He runs a hand roughly over the top of his mask as Peter arches and gasps against his mouth. Wade’s tongue presses inside, sliding against his own.

They make out, hungry and heated from the exhilaration of the fight.

“Oh fuck,” Wade breaks off breathlessly, hips pressing Spidey against the wall like he’s afraid to let him go. “If this is a wet dream, please let me call a neighbor to turn off my alarm.”

“So you _don’t_ ever shut up,” Peter huffs, then hitches forward, slipping his tongue into the warmth of Wade’s mouth. The merc’s meets him there, wrestling with him until he’s gasping again.

Deadpool’s palms press against the wall on either side of Peter’s head, letting him curve lazily around the younger’s body. He grinds against the front of Spidey’s suit, electric at the idea of more, thrilled with the way Spidey regularly tilts his head to kiss him from a different angle. His mind is unbelievably quiet right now. His body is like a flare ready to shatter him from the inside.

All at once, a militia of sirens scream from outside the building. The two of them pull away, jolted by the sudden intrusion.

“Let’s settle this outside?” Wade offers weakly, self-consciousness flooding him the second their bodies part.

Shaking from exertion, Spidey just gives a stunned nod, pulling the mask down over his mouth.

They climb back up to the ceiling and slip through a grate in the wall, spilling out onto the fire escape (pertinent).

The night is clear and crisp after all that fire. Avoiding the flashing lights of the emergency vehicles below, they sneak behind the generators on the roof of the building.

Deadpool sinks into a crouch, pressing his back to the gently humming machinery. He passes a hand over his scarred face, wiping away soot and water and saliva. Conversely, Spidey stays on his feet. He paces for a minute, then looks out to the skyline, then turns back to face Wade, seeming conflicted.

“Hey,” Wade hesitates, breaking the uncomfortable silence, “You know, Webs, if you wanna erase that whole thing, I get it. Explosions and close calls and stuff… all that near-death action is what made the vikings so horny, and sometimes even the vroom of race cars is enough to get me going, so I get it if it was just a freak-”

“Wade, stop,” he cuts in, looking down at a very bashful-colored Deadpool. “It’s not that. I’m trying to decide if I want to show you who I am.”

Wade goes quiet. He angles his head up. “Oh Spidey,” he murmurs, still thrown from the whole kissing thing. He sounds so gloomy that Peter’s heart rolls over. “No, Spidey, please reconsider. I don’t deserve something like that.”

“Shut up Wade,” he responds quietly, pressing his knuckles thoughtfully to his jaw. “Stop crying about yourself all the time. You feel shitty? Own it. Own it or change it.”

Hanging his head, Wade drapes his elbows in his lap. “You know I’m trying.”

“Trying about as hard as a flare bomb is loud?” he taunts with a crooked smile.

“Ohh fuck off, you sanctioned that.”

“If your friend jumped off a warehouse roof, you’d do it too?” he mocks.

“Hell yeah I would, pretty Webs, and I’d watch ya swing away right before my skull exploded on the sidewalk.”

Smiling, Peter wraps his arms around himself, suit still damp from the sprinklers. Below them he can hear firefighters storming through the warehouse, loading in the hose to beef up the relief efforts. He should be down there helping, but instead here he is, putting out fires in his own mind.

He remembers high school beatings and workplace beratements that just bordered on getting classed as abuse. He knows what it’s like to be ugly, to be helpless, to have no one see you for who you are and go _well that’s okay, I’m not someone worth seeing anyways_. Wade is no different than him.

But at least he hasn’t run away from his vulnerability like Peter has, the only hope that either of them have of fighting back against their worst selves.

Wade has let Spiderman see who he is. It’s about time Spiderman lets Wade see him too.

Bracing himself, he reaches up and pulls the mask off his face.

Deadpool does nothing at first. He stares at Peter Parker blindly, unmoving, before his face twists with recognition and he jumps to his feet.

“What?” he squeaks, voice faltering. “Wait, what? Webs- you’re? Oh no, oh no, oh no.”

Then his knees are so week he’s not able to stay on his feet. “Holy fuck, no,” he whispers to himself, eyes darting back and forth over Peter’s face. “Is this a joke?”

Peter smiles with a wince. “Worse or better than when your favorite streamer did his first face cam?”

“Worse,” Wade squeals, “I mean better. I mean… I killed you, Spidey. I killed you. I so totally killed you, and not in a pleasant way at all.”

He shuffles nervously. “Yeah, you did.”

“If I hadn’t gone back for Parker,” he realizes out loud, grabbing his head in distress, “I mean, if I hadn’t gone back for _you_ , you would have… oh god.”

Peter knows. If Wade hadn’t gone down to fish Peter’s soul out of the afterlife, he would have just assumed that the resulting silence was Spiderman vacating his life. And Wade would have lived in cold vindication about it, always thinking he’d done the right thing, never knowing that Spidey was dead too.

The truth of it sinks down until it’s less of a mindfuck and more of a sick reality.

“I’m sorry, Webs,” he offers shamefully, wishing he could curl into himself and evaporate.

He’s said it a million times but it’s never felt as dry and empty and it does in his mouth now.

Peter has never heard it sound more real.

“Wade, I told you. I forgive you.” He stands there awkwardly, then reaches down to help guide Wade to his feet. “You can call me Peter, if you want.”

“Thanks, but I’m a creature of habit,” he manages shakily, reaching into his pocket for his mask. He slides it back down over his face, giving himself a moment to hide. “I’m gonna go do a couple shots of tequila. Extra salt. You in, hombre?”

Peters softens. “You know I don’t drink.”

“Yeah, but I don’t know what Peter does. Holy hell, Webs, I’m gonna need at least a week to wrap my mind around this. Maybe a little extra, depending how black-out drunk I’m getting tonight. You sure you don’t want a beer? Barely-there alc content, all yeast. A Shirley Temple even? Club soda? I’m willing to look into recreational Benadryl at this point.”

Peter smiles and pulls his mask down again too, turning back into the Spiderman.

“Yeah, I’ll go with you,” he says with an overdramatic shrug. “Elevenish? I kind of need to brush the soot off me first. Do you want to go to the Cypress?”

“Sure thing, Spidey.” He hesitates, then puts a fist cutely under his chin, trying for a joke even though his hands are shaking. “Masks on or off?”

A warmth flitters across Peter’s face and he relaxes his shoulders, glad Wade can’t see it. “Off,” he suggests quietly, feeling like a boy who's just sent his first _I like you_ to a girl on Formspring. The air feels warmer for a second, like winter has thawed for spring, although that might just be the literal dumpster fire below their feet.

Deadpool looks at Spidey like he’s never seen him before, his face contorted with emotion.

“Fuck it, mask off,” he approves in a rumbling voice.

-

He’s glad to have a few hours of buffer time before Spiderman firmly transforms into Peter Parker.

Shock grips him as he takes the long way home, strolling with his mask in his hands. Does he need to get out of town for a little bit? Run off and think this over for a minute, maybe?

Spiderman is an eight-legged deity in his mind, there’s no bullshitting around that. His word is law. His approval is absolution. His hidden, anonymous face (and in spite of that, the surprising fact that Wade has gotten to know him so well anyways) is like an idol, carved from wood, imbued with spirit in the form of blood and sweat and the saliva they shared tonight. He is perfect.

God, it fucking haunts him.

Peter’s brown eyes pleading with him as he put the bullet in his face. The way he said his name and Wade should have known, why didn’t he fucking _know_ , instead of thinking it was one of his thought boxes overlapping with reality.

While he’s on the topic, his thoughts tonight are fucking relentless. Any spike in brain activity and they latch on like leeches, using distress as the fuel they need to run through every insecurity and fear he has stored away in the folds of his gray matter.

But what they’re threatening is true: he doesn’t know if Peter is going to outlast the image of Webs that Deadpool has painted in his head.

He doesn’t know if Peter Parker, let alone Spidey, will accept him for who _he_ is.

But then, an hour later, he’s stepping through the heavy black curtains that shield the Cypress’ entrance, everything drenched in purple neon light. The room is dark and loud. A pile of wooden blocks come crashing to the ground and the group of girls playing giant Jenga laugh in terror.

A man with ruffled brown hair sits up straight in his chair and turns around, eyes finding Wade immediately, as if he sensed his presence.

Peter.

Deadpool’s heart gets skewered on his katana. His eyes go wide.

 _Oh fuck_ , his own voice says, drowning out the other thought boxes, _I feel seen_.


	3. part three.  i reached for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi. <3  
> I ditched one of my few grad school classes today because I was 2passionate2cease.  
> as always, thank you for riding along with me. I love being in this world.
> 
> now presenting: my boys.

“Jesus, Wade,” Peter startles, only relaxing when the man finally wraps his arms around him, “Stop doing that.”

“Sorry Spidey,” he teases, as though he hasn’t been exploiting the spideysense thing from the moment Webs told him about it. He’s spent all night making eyes with the back of Peter’s skull, staring until the prickling sensation is so bad he can’t white knuckle it anymore. “Can’t shut mine off any more than you can power down yours. We’re gonna have to find some common ground here.”

The couch groans as Deadpool shifts his weight, pulling Peter into his lap and pressing his lips to his neck. His apartment isn’t any bigger than Peter’s is, nor is the furniture any nicer, but it has a cozy, tucked away feel that makes Peter want to curl up on this futon forever.

“Mine is because my blood is radioactive,” he argues, squirming as Wade squeezes him tighter.

“Yeah, and mine is because I literally can’t kill a single fucking thing in my body. Including my feelings.”

“Well you kill the mood well enough,” he grumbles, diving into the cushions for the lost clicker and upping the volume by a few decibels. “Lana’s about to cut somebody and I wanna know who it is.”

“Ooh, Spidey, I love _Bad Girls Club_. Reminds me of boarding school.”

“Did you go to boarding school?” Peter asks, throwing a glance over his shoulder.

“Nah, but I was literally tortured until my skin exploded, and that’s almost as awkward as your first breakout.”

Peter tilts his head back at the tv, the remote hanging loosely in his hand. It’s insufferably hard to peek into Deadpool’s past. He wants to know details: Wade’s parents, his early memories, first jobs, pivotal moments.

You’d think these brief glimpses into the worst thing that ever happened to him would sate that want, but instead, those memories are just glaring statements that wash out everything else. On top of that, Wade mentions them flippantly, and with such vulgarity, that all the intimacy gets sucked out of it.

He swallows, feeling obvious. “Yeah, but like, how _was_ high school… back… then? How old are you?”

“First of all, it’s called secondary school in Canada, but I’m gonna forgive that ethnocentric slip.” He rests his chin on the crook of Spidey’s neck, watching a girl on tv get the bitch slapped out of her. “Second, I’d tell you my age but then I’d have to kill you. Again.”

A flash of frustration goes through Peter.

“I’m glad we’re on joking terms about it, Wade.” 

Deadpool’s distracted jiggling stops. “Webs,” he says quietly, sounding startled.

“Sorry,” Peter mumbles, grabbing at one of the arms wound tight around him. “I’m just annoyed. It's always jokes. You won't tell me anything about your past.”

He feels Wade’s chest swell behind him, inhaling deeply.

“Oh,” he considers, leaning back and taking Peter with him. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, Spidey, it’s not. I just don’t remember a lot. I partook in the healing factor shuffle a month after I turned twenty, and it kind of wiped out all my other memories. Or maybe I did that, I dunno.”

Absently, Peter watches Lana pocket a flask and put on a pair of sparkling high heels to go make up with her BFF. He runs his thumb idly over the bone of Wade’s wrist.

It seems like Wade is about to say something, but Peter cuts him off.

“When I got bitten, my life didn’t change,” he remembers, “My parents were already dead, my apartment with May was still the size of an icebox, and half of it was filled with bills. I didn’t lose anything because of it, but it didn’t get better." He offers a bitter smile. "I got a little stickier and felt a little more important, but I still couldn’t save the people I loved.”

Deadpool shifts. Something else he awes about Spiderman: his ability to spontaneously dredge up something so personal that it makes the earth stop turning. It would have taken Wade 10 therapy sessions, 15 diary entries, and 5 shots to mimic that kind of self-reflection.

Five or six stores. Or just one mental breakdown.

“That’s just it, Spideybabe,” he confesses. “It sucks. You only beat yourself up harder when the webs and the agility don’t come through.”

Wade has always been a fuck up. After he was tortured, he just became a _dangerous_ fuck up.

“The worst thing about torture is that it makes you stronger.” He growls loudly at the thought. “It rips out the soft parts of you, even if those were the only things holding you together.” Spidey jumps when he throws an exasperated palm into the air, making a disbelieving sound. “Webs, did you see that? That bitch totally rejected her apology.”

Peter turns around in Wade’s lap, hooking his leg over so he’s face-to-face with the male, blocking him from the tv.

Wade’s face is torn and shredded, blistered and burned, but it’s achingly comfortable to look at. He runs his eyes across it, momentarily distracted.

“Mmm,” he considers slowly, raking a pair of knuckles over Wade’s chest, “Nature is easy. If you’re a bad girl, you’re a bad girl. If you’re good, you’re just good.” He thinks about Wade’s sacrifices. He thinks of the money he burned, the hedonism he rejected, just to win Spiderman’s approval. “It means something when you _strive_ for good.”

Deadpool tilts his head and smirks. “So you’re absolving me of evil by calling yourself a pussy.” His eyes narrow excitedly. “Or is this just an elaborate way of saying you want to call me a bad girl in bed?”

“You’re not evil,” Peter scoffs, following the teasing glow of Wade’s blue eyes. He chooses to ignore that last part. “You’re not half as bad as you give yourself credit for.”

“Oh, so now you’re saying I’m not _even_ a bad girl, I’m just egotistical?” He reaches up and grabs Peter’s ass, jerking him closer. “How about your claims, huh? “Stickier”? Give me a demo.”

Peter laughs quietly before Deadpool closes his mouth with a kiss, cupping the younger’s face with both hands. He leans in, scooping his arms around Wade to press their chests together. Playful pecks become an open-mouthed wrestle for dominance and Wade lets Webs win, groaning as the male writhes on his lap. 

Tonight, Spidey is dressed down to a pale blue t-shirt and a loose pair of boxers; it’s been kind of hard to ignore, and he’s been nursing an erection for the better half of the episode, but now it’s all he can think about.

“Damn,” he breathes, voice rough with lust, “You feel as graceful as you look on those ropes.” He nips at Peter’s ear. “You look so fucking good when you’re fighting, Spidey, did you know that? My last two braincells immediately shrivel up and die.”

It’s repugnant that there should be this much skin in contact with his disgusting suit, but it makes his breath catch, to see Peter’s limbs strewn over either side of his burgundy uniform, all that soft, bare flesh pressed up against the rough shapes of his belt and its holsters.

He runs his hand up the delicate skin of Peter’s inner thigh, skating his fingers below his underwear. Webs’ boxers are tented, pulling the fabric up, and he’s got a gloved hand wrapped around the male’s length before Peter can think to ask for it.

The younger makes an accenting sound, bucking his hips. He grabs onto Wade’s sides and thrusts testingly against the slow strokes.

“Wade,” he complains playfully, grinding down against the bulge in his suit, “Wade, ow, take off your gloves.”

Deadpool grins and pulls his hand back, (look at that, he is a bit sticky afterall), and grabs the tips of its fingers to yank off the glove.

He only gets halfway there before his head leaves the building.

As soon as he sees the scarring of his hand, his flesh bloated and mangled, he gets sick to his stomach. The desire in his gut clenches and becomes queasiness, spilling into the rest of him. His voices feel it happen. They start chattering excitedly.

He pulls the glove back down, clamping a hand over his wrist.

 _Not right now,_ he begs brokenly to himself, all his insides going cold.

“Wade,” Peter says, jolting him back into his right mind.

“Mmm, Spideyboy, but mouths are better,” he backtracks airily, hoping Peter can’t hear the frantic sounds coming from inside his brain. He stands with a heave and twists them around, dropping Peter onto the couch. Then he gets to his knees, pulling down the band of Peter’s boxers and snapping them in place under his balls.

“A sprightly creature shouldn’t also get to have a cock this thick,” he says, distracting himself from the feeling in his gut, “But I always knew you were perfect, Webs, so I’m not salty about it.”

He sinks his mouth down over Peter’s length before the male can comment, taking his cock into his cheek and giving it a few preparatory sucks. Then he teases his tongue up and down the shaft, leaning forward to take it deeper into his mouth.

Peter gasps at the quickness of it and throws his legs over Wade’s shoulders, sinking into the couch. He grabs Wade’s scalp with both hands and pulls the man's head back, delivering mixed messages, when he thrusts his hips forward anyhow.

“Spider, baby,” Wade purrs, popping off to look him in the eye. “Don’t be nervous about it. Come here and fuck my throat.”

Peter’s eyes roll back and he pulls Wade’s head down on him, the gesture so dominant that Wade feels a surge of love roll in and burn through his self-disgust. He sinks down onto Peter’s cock and takes him into his throat, bobbing his head. Peter vocalizes with panting, shallow whines.

“Wade,” he whispers in a flush of pleasure, fingers threading through the other’s scalp. “That’s so good.”

Deadpool’s heart throbs at the praise even as his head crawls from the touch, made suddenly aware of itself. He answers with a gentle humming noise, sending vibrations traveling through Peter.

Abruptly, Peter pulls away from Wade’s mouth and falls backwards onto the couch, breathing heavily. He doesn't want to ruin himself so soon. He doesn't want to take without giving back.

Calling on all the grace that gets him through he air, he angles off the cushion and crashes to the floor, tumbling into Deadpool’s lap. Dazed with want, he slots their lips together, hands fumbling as he wrestles to undo Wade’s belt.

Surprised, Wade makes a strangled sound. He seizes Peter’s hands, pinning them against the couch.

“Hey,” Peter whispers in a haze of confusion, pulling against the fingers clamped around his wrists. “Hey, Deadpool, stop.”

Wade opens his mouth to say something but all that comes out is a surprised, choked sob.

“…Wade?” he tries feebly, anxiety flicking through him.

“I-” he hesitates, swallowing, fingers still curled tight around Peter’s wrists. “I don’t want you to touch me, Webs. It’s… it’s disgusting.”

“It’s disgusting?” he echoes faintly.

“Not you, fuck, not you. Me. My skin. My body.” He slouches back on his haunches, eyes darting back and forth over Peter’s face. “I don’t know how you can touch me without throwing up.”

“I… I ate a light lunch,” he squeaks, stunned.

Wade’s hands relax, letting him go one finger at a time. There’s a load of swearing come from the television, but Peter’s attention is wholly fixed on Wade, who in turn is staring at the carpet.

“I don’t deserve you,” he concludes finally, shrugging violently. “I have nothing to offer you.”

Spidey’s head starts grinding for a solution. Wade’s a mercenary. He likes tough love and rough sex. But when Peter reaches forward to place a hand against his cheek, he can’t put any force into the grip. He flattens his palm lovingly.

“Wade, I know what’s happening, and I need you to tell your mutant brain to make way for Spidey.” He pulls Wade in and the older falls easy, letting his head rest against Peter’s collar. “Because if you sabotage this whole thing in the name of pity, I’m gonna be pissed. Even more pissed than when you murdered me. And that’s no easy feat.”

With a tearful hiccup, Wade lets out a chuckle, then another.

“Jesus Spidey, you really know how to sweet talk a guy out of his skin.”

“Stay in your skin,” he murmurs gently, running a slender hand through Wade’s blonde hair. “Hey. What if we turn off this crap, take off our clothes, and pull down your blackout curtains? Will that help?”

Wades draws back and studies Peter’s face. God, he can’t believe this is his Spidey. But at the same time, how could he have ever seen Peter as anything else? He was afraid the split between them would be too stark for comfort, but this is comparable only to that middle area on a Venn diagram.

He looks Spidey in the eye and gives an uncertain, shrugging nod.

Wade plunges the room into darkness before he can start to undress, leaning against the back of his couch for support. Meanwhile, Spidey brushes his teeth in the bathroom down the hall, grooming his hair back for bed, leaving his clothes slung over the side of the tub. When he comes back, he uses all of his spidey skills to slip through the smallest sliver of doorway he can manage, choking out the faint moonlight coming in through the hallway window.

“Was that echo-location?” Wade asks when Peter finds him in the dark, embracing him around the waist.

“I told you, I can spideysense you,” he responds, trailing his fingers behind Wade’s back, following the curve of his tailbone. He’s actually feeling a bit #shook right now. Deadpool has always been on the bulkier side, but with touch as his only sense, he realizes just how much… girth there is. Wade is all muscles and ridges where Peter is sinewy and smooth. He's got a heightened tactile view from this vantagepoint.

Well, to be fair, touch isn’t the only sense heightened right now.

“Wade,” he broaches, “have you showered today?”

“Uh." Wade hesitates. "The idea of a shower was little too much, given how today went,” he confesses through gritted teeth. “Why, is it really bad?”

This is depression, Peter realizes all at once. Wade Wilson has depression and a touch of psychopathy, tied off with severe self-image issues.

“Not like, _really_ bad,” Peter answers, “Just… a little musky.”

Honestly he’d kill himself before admitting it, but the smell of sweat is kind of turning him on. It makes the whole thing feel oddly intimate in nature, real and gritty. … He blames pheromones.

As Wade steps out of the suit, Peter buries his face into the center of his chest.

Maybe it _is_ akin to echolocation. He can practically sense the outline of Wade in the dark. At least, see it well enough to know that he’s being regarded as though he’s a brunette doe and Wade is the phantom of the fucking opera. Wade hides himself beneath pomp and wit, but Peter can see him so well now that those things have been stripped away. He’s a delicate thing. Peter was never trying to catch him, but one well-placed web was all he needed.

“Where’s your bed?” he asks, stepping back a bit.

Wade answers with a push, walking him backward until he hits the edge of the queen.

“Oh man,” Spidey muses as he leaps onto the mattress, sinking into its spongy foam. Wade’s comforter is the perfect combination of thick and cool, and he can’t help but get immediately tangled up in it. “Gouge my eyes out, Deadpool, it’s a simpler world out here.”

“Mindfulness is very on trend,” Wade responds, the weight of his body depressing the mattress. He drops onto it, rolling onto his side. There’s enough room for them to both spread their wingspans and still be comfortable, but Spidey immediately crawls into the vacant space of his body.

Peter swallows, then angles his head up. His forehead brushes Wade’s chin, and the older responds by clawing a hand through his hair.

“So like, does it hurt to be touched? Can I ask that?”

Wade thinks on it. “It’s not pain, it’s like… a squeamish thing. The ew factor,” he answers, “Reminding myself that my closest relatives are cheese-graters and whatever that shit is that comes out of a battery when it explodes because you didn’t think your poo-chi needed to go in the climate-controlled storage unit.”

“Once again, I think you’re overestimating your relative level of garishness. And illustrating your points a little too finely.” He tastes salt on the fleshy tendons of Wade’s neck as he speaks, and opens his mouth to suck the skin into his mouth.

Wade _nng_ ’s as way of response, leaning his head back to expose more of his neck. Peter takes full advantage of the vulnerability. He holds the delicate skin between his teeth and sucks a bruise onto it, pulse picking up as Wade starts huffing instead of talking.

He stretches up for a kiss and their jaws collide awkwardly. He laughs.

Beneath his fingers, Wade’s skin isn’t smooth. It’s a bumpy terrain that would honestly have unnerved him if he didn’t know what it was. But he’s fond of it now. It certainly doesn’t repulse him.

“Take your eyes out of it. Does it feel weird?” he asks instead of voicing that thought.

“I guess. But if I’m not thinking about it, I can trick myself into forgetting I’m not baby smooth.”

“Then don’t think about it,” he suggests, exploring Wade’s body with his hands. “Just feel me.”

Wade is an active, warm, living thing.

That sounds obvious, if not stupid, but Peter has been with men who are as cold in bed as they are in life. Wade is warm, his skin thrumming. He reacts to touches, he has a smell, he sweats and it makes the little tufts of hair on his body damp. Maybe it’s the healing factor thing? Or maybe it’s just who he is. The room is pitch black but Wade radiates enough personality to bring Peter’s sight back in all the ways that matter.

“That sounds like something a white girl with a _live, laugh, love_ tapestry would say to a guy she just met at a gas station, but I’ll forgive you Webs, because you’re kind of getting me hard again.”

Sometimes silence is golden, so Peter chooses not to respond and gets back to work on his neck, sucking hickeys that he won’t see until morning. Then their lips meet properly and Wade has him on his back, their naked bodies pressed together, Spidey all wrapped up in Deadpool’s arms.

“Fffuck,” he breathes when Deadpool starts rutting against his cock, reaching down to jerk them off with the same fist. “Do that again, slowly.”

He shivers as Wade gives them another few firm strokes, his tongue lapping lazily against Spidey’s.

The pleasure is a hot, bright ball in the center of Peter’s chest, filling him from heart to fingertips. He’s never felt this exact combination of warm and safe and aroused. It’s love, and he wants to whimper and squirm until he comes all over Wade’s hand.

But he puts it off and rolls to the side, making Wade follow. He dips down with his mouth and finds one of Wade’s nipples, rolling it carefully on the tip of his tongue. His other hand gives a backhanded caress down the shaft of his erection, then runs it back up, fully grasping him.

Wade sighs a little, a quiet noise that says he's at the mercy of that hands that hold him, and it makes Peter burn.

“Let me-” he says hesitantly, “Let me just make you feel good.”

“Oh, is that all, Spideybabe?” he asks in a laughing whisper. Because god damn, now he’s in a headspace cleaner than a kale smoothie, with a body that feels suspiciously natural. “You always make me feel good. You could literally stomp on my balls and it would feel good.”

If he’s being honest with himself, Peter doesn’t know why. His self-esteem isn’t particularly bad, but he just feels… well, kind of ordinary. He doesn’t deserve this praise that he garners.

But he switches to the next nipple instead of talking, jerking Wade through his hand.

“I want to fuck you,” he says very quietly, because honestly he’ll blush if he hears himself say it. “Is that something you’d want? I mean.”

“Oh my god, yes,” Wade rasps, grabbing the back of Peter’s neck. “Yes, like, right now, Webs, like, you have to let go of me because I’m thinking about it and it’s getting me there.”

Peter lets go of his cock and draws back, feeling around for Wade’s face. He holds it in both hands, a gesture of affirming action.

“Do you have something I can use to get you-”

He feels Wade’s body turn away from him, then hears the pop of a cap opening in the dark.

“Was _that_ echolocation?” he asks, then laughs.

“More like muscle memory.”

“Mmm, muscle,” he repeats tauntingly, dragging a finger down Wade’s chest.

“Give me your hands,” Wade tells him.

He cups his hands in front of him and then feels Wade’s wrap around them, lacing their fingers together. His hands are wet and sticky with lubricant, and Spidey’s get wet and sticky from the contact.

“I… have never been handed lube that way before,” he comments, not sure it’s the best method of transfer.

“I’m messy,” Wade says plainly.

“Well, at least that’s one principal we can agree on,” he says, rubbing his hands together.

He trails his hand down Wade’s spine, slipping his hand between his ass cheeks.

“This part is never really sexy I guess,” he winces, “But… worth it?”

Wade rubs a hand against his chest, smearing lube over himself, and sprawls out over his pillow. “Put that on my gravestone, Spidey.”

Peter massages him with the pads of his fingers before starting to open him up. Slippery and warmed by Peter’s hand, the lube helps, eventually granting enough yield for him to start scissoring Wade open on two fingers.

“Does this suck?” he laughs self-consciously. He's not in this role 75% of the time, and he’s also afraid that discomfort is gonna trigger Wade’s body issues again, but Wade just makes a pleased groaning sound.

“No, Webs, it’s actually pretty sexy, ngl.” The slight filthiness of it, the gentle invasion. _He’s_ not in this role 75% of the time, but it’s pretty special when he is. It’s a whole ass experience.

(Haha sorry, couldn’t resist).

Also, even though Peter is a complete and utter human male to him, the idea that Spiderman is going to be swinging around town tomorrow, punching baddies, entertaining spectators, all after having done this with him is dizzyingly arousing.

Wade grunts. “I’m gonna be honest though, I was kind of a skim reader in school, just picking out key points so I’d have something to write about in my daily journal, so what I’m saying is basically that I’m ready to be penetrated now.”

“Wade,” he says sternly, reaching around in the dark for more lube.

Wade grabs his hand, pulling it against his chest. He gives it a kiss. “Two fingers deep is fine, just take another helping and we’re good to go.” He places Peter’s palm face-up and squirts more out of the bottle for him.

“If that’s your attitude, it’s gonna be a long time before I let you anywhere near _my_ ass,” he hisses, slicking himself up.

The bed shifts and Peter feels Wade prop himself up, looming over him. A pair of lips go hot against his neck. “Oh Spidey, just because I’m impatient doesn’t mean you will be,” he breathes, already lightheaded at the thought of it, “I’ll spend so much time getting you ready for me that you’ll be whining for it.” He pauses. “… Say ass again.”

“No,” he growls, pushing Wade away.

“Just one more time.”

“No.”

Peter presses against Wade’s back, spooning him. The man is bigger and bulkier than Peter, but he sighs when the younger’s arms wrap around him, pulling him in close. He drags his hand through Wade’s hair, then leaves it there.

“This okay?” he murmurs, grinding his hips against Wade before taking his cock in his hand and lining it up. He presses in slowly, guiding himself carefully against the resisting muscles.

“Yeah, Spidey," He groans at the feeling of a cockhead prodding against his walls. It's been a minute. "Like I told you. Don’t be nervous.”

“Okay,” he says, dropping his hand down to Wade’s chest. “You’re really feeling better? Not disgusted?”

“Mmm, not disgusted at all,” he purrs, pressing back to meet Spidey halfway. The motion thrusts Peter halfway into him, making him clench his teeth. “Adjusting tho,” he cautions, eyes watering at the perfect stretch as Peter fills him up.

Peter is altogether too high maintenance for this, although by the time he’s established a rhythm he’s hardly thinking about that anymore. He holds Wade against his chest and starts fucking him with timed thrusts, draping a leg over Wade’s hip.

“Oh,” Wade responds, arching back against Peter’s cock as it starts striking him at a perfect angle. “Okay, yeah.” He grabs Peter’s hand and twines their fingers together, rocking back and hissing through his teeth. “Yeah, that’s fucking perrrfect,” he rolls, stars exploding in his eyes.

Peter wraps his hand around Wade’s erection, running the flat of his palm up and down until Wade is matching his pace, thrusting in sync with Peter.

It’s not an astoundingly fast pace, although part of him wants to prove that he can be rough, that he can plant Wade facedown into the mattress and make him writhe with pleasure. Maybe you’re supposed to lead with that and hold this kind of sex off for later on, but he isn’t in the right mood for it. He wants slow thrusts, to fuck deeply instead of quickly, holding Wade’s hand instead of his neck. He wants to listen to the noises Wade makes, and let it build up until he can’t stop himself from spilling over the edge.

Maybe that’s why he’s a nerd, why none of his other relationships made it past this point. But he feels so goddamn good like this, buried deep inside somebody who he knows absolutely fucking loves him, hearing him moan quietly as Peter jerks him off.

“Harder Spidey,” Wade pants, letting out another groan when Peter thrusts into him with more force. Wade squeezes his hand, clenching his ass to feel the thickness inside of it.

Pleasure slings through Peter’s body, doubling each time he hears himself slap against Wade’s ass.

“Oh, I’m close,” he warns, slamming his hips forward faster, “Do you want me to pull out?”

“Fuck no,” Wade huffs, face hot. “Make me come by spilling the spidey seed inside me.”

“Wade- that’s- literally disgusting.”

He means it, but he’s too far gone to stop the language from getting to him. Whimpering, he grabs Wade’s neck between his teeth and lets his orgasm roll over him in delicious spurts, the kind of climax a guy has to put hours into. Cum fills him and it doesn’t take long for Deadpool to follow him over the edge. His body clenches as he hitches his hips and comes into Peter’s hand, letting loose a string of breathy moans.

“Mmm,” he hums contentedly as Peter thrusts into him a few more times, riding out the aftershock. “Didn’t expect you to bite me.”

“I didn’t mean to,” he apologizes.

Wade slowly peels away, running a hand over his sensitive cock and shivering at the barely-tolerable feeling.

“The next time you do it, you can mean to.”

A shiver goes down Peter's spine. There it is again: his spideysense and hormones, getting their wires crossed. Fuck. He loves how it feels.

“Oh my god, I’m so tired,” Spiderman sighs, flopping limply onto his back. “I need you to cuddle me the second you finish washing yourself off.”

Wade rolls over, gathering Webs into his arms. “Wash myself off?” he repeats, offended, “One, I’m too tired to get up, and two, I am enjoying the sultry feeling of cum on my skin.”

“That’s not messy, that’s just gross,” Peter growls irritatedly.

“Bold of you to assume a distinction.”

Peter desperately wants to be annoyed, but in the end, he can’t hold onto it. He’s warm and satisfied and his body is being manipulatively placated by the sensation of flesh on flesh. Deadpool is going to condition him into liking disgusting things and he doesn’t even have the energy to be mad about it.

“Plus,” Wade adds as an afterthought, “When we have 10am shower sex tomorrow, if I’m not actually dirty then the whole body wash scene just becomes gratuitous and it’s awkward for everyone.”

Spidey yawns, curling up into Wade’s arms. “I am not going to be awake at 10am.”

“Is that… a vice?” Deadpool exclaims, ruffling the back of Peter’s scalp in mock excitement.

“If you mean my inexplicable habit of sleeping with hit men hired to kill me, sure.”

Wade grins, pulling up the covers. “As long as I’m last in line, Webs.”

-

Sundown, Saturday evening.

Peter is drowsy and filled with Pad Thai, watching Deadpool lean out of the window and look around. The setting sun burns orange on the horizon, rippling across the steel and glass of the high-rise buildings.

“I swear I can hear something,” Wade says for the second time in the last five minutes, tracing his eyes through the streets. His apartment isn’t high enough to stop the other buildings from limiting his view of downtown New York, so he can’t see anything abnormal. He’s also not sure what he thought he heard. The city is always loud, but certain sounds activate the warning signals in his brain. That instantaneous ability to distinguish commotion from trouble is necessary on a patrol, and he’s gotten pretty damn experienced at it.

“Let me see,” Peter cuts in, squeezing past him and leaning over the windowsill. The city is getting springier every day, with warm breezes rolling through the chilly air. The streets look calm. All at once, his attention snaps towards midtown.

“Yup,” he states sharply, zeroing in. “Let’s go.”

They pull on their suits, masking up. Deadpool slings his katanas over his back as Peter clamps his cuffs around his wrists, giving the webs a testing shot.

“Any idea what we’re walking into?”

“You’re walking, I’m swinging. And no, but you were right, something is definitely off.”

“You know, your powers are very mysterious, Spiderman,” Wade comments, fumbling for the zipper on his back. “I can’t get a grip on them.”

“That’s because your idea of tactical combat is jumping off a roof and landing on a person’s spine.”

“Hah, you’re a palm reader too?”

“Just observant.” He tucks the bottom of his mask into his neckline, then grinds his knuckles together. “Ready?”

“Freddy,” Deadpool answers.

“See you there.”

Spiderman vaults out the open window, leaping into the air with his wrists brandished. He latches onto a balcony, then a windowsill, getting a good rhythm going. Wade isn’t nearly as agile and has none of the equipment, but he doesn’t let himself fall too far behind as he follows a trail of webbed breadcrumbs. His knees can absorb a lot of shock, so he jumps down and takes to the street, looking up every once in a while to catch a spidery shadow flickering through the city.

Peter’s not even halfway to the scene when he gets a confirmation that things are badly amiss. Something crashes loudly, ushering forth a cacophony of screams. The sound of hysteria bounces from building to tightly packed building.

He swings around the corner and realizes that people are fleeing wildly below him, tumbling out of cars that’ve come to a screeching halt.

He snaps his head to the left sees what they are running from: there’s a depression in the ground where the pavement’s been scorched and indented, struck as though by a giant meteor. He center himself before the panic gets to him, trying to think this through. The screaming fades as his spideysense focuses, homing in. He flashes his eyes up and finds the source of the destruction. There’s a man standing atop a low building, holding a rod in his hand.

The man lifts the stick and smashes it through the air like a hammer. In a screech of bursting metal, three cars get flattened beneath an invisible weight.

“Oh, what the hell is that?” he squeaks to himself, releasing a string of webs and throwing himself into the empty space. On all fours, he darts onto the side of an adjacent building, peeking his head around the corner.

Below, he sees Deadpool rush into the middle of the action, hopping onto a crushed car as though it were a pedestal.

“Hey!” he calls, waving his arms in the air. “Hey fuck face, that was an el camino!”

The spindly man, ginger as a bonfire, raises the rod and slowly sweeps it through the air. Spidey’s eyes go wide, knowing what’s about to happen. He jumps, spurting out an impulsive web to yank the rod away before he uses it to crush Wade.

“Oh shit,” he breathes as the movement causes the rod to release, sending a huge dent careening through the base of the building. The man looks right at him, his location betrayed, before collapsing with the rubble.

Peter jumps back into the clearing. On the descent, he whips the weapon against the ground by smacking the web it’s attached to, shattering the piece of plastic. He lands on four legs in the giant crater, flicking a pair of nervous eyes up at Wade.

“Recognize him?” he pants, crawling forward through the ripped-up pavement.

“Not even from my dreams,” Wade answers, drawing his katanas.

They watch as the man slowly gets to his feet in the dust, concrete particles crumbling all around him. He has wild, curly red hair, which is his only noticeable trait until he opens his coat and they get a glimpse of all the different weapons strapped to stitched-in holsters.

“Well… I don’t think he’s peddling watches,” Wade mumbles, crossing his blades defensively as the man pulls out a tiny dagger.

He thrusts it forward and Spidey pushes Wade out of the way, slinging them through the air. They barely make it as the blade dislodges a charge of electricity that snakes across the ground and electrocutes the first object it hits.

“Split up?” Wade calls, ducking right when Spidey swings to the left. The current sizzles between them, clapping against the sidewalk.

“Wade!” he warns as the man slashes the blade length-wide, creating a hissing cable of voltage.

Deadpool glances up at him and leaps skyward, jumping rope with the current. Frantically, Peter dispels a rope of webs and grabs Wade around the arm, helping him get the height he needs. Deadpool springs and then lets himself drop, aiming for the villain.

An excited laugh spills from Spidey’s mouth as he does it, planting his boots onto both shoulders and sending the man collapsing onto the ground.

Fuck, working with Wade is fun.

The terror isn’t. The ruined city, the injured people, the possible bodies in this wreckage- _that’s_ horrible. But if he thinks about that now, he won’t be able to get up and finish this. He has to focus on the thrill of the combat, on his teamwork with Deadpool, and then he can worry about falling apart.

Wade kicks the man in the ribs until he turns over, pressing a heavy boot onto his chest.

“What’s the deal, soulless?” he asks, pointing both katanas at his heart. “Creative Ways to Die Inc.? Or are you an indie brand?”

The lanky guy coughs, then smiles, squirming under Wade’s foot. “Just testing out some new inventions,” he admits.

“I’ve got one too, scientifically proven to end your fuckin-”

“Wade,” Spidey interjects, swinging down. “No killing.”

Wade groans loudly, rolling his head over his shoulder.

“ _Seriously?_ ” he asks. “Shouldn’t we be using this as an opportunity to show the world that most terrorism isn’t brown?”

“Pri. Son,” he articulates in an angry click.

“Fine,” he barks, sheathing his katanas. He reaches down and grabs for the collar of the man’s coat, pulling him to his feet.

The man whistles. Someone whistles back.

Then a second person comes flying out of the darkness, long black hair flying around her face, and kicks Wade in the shin.

“Hi,” the male one breathes as he tears out of Wade’s trip, reaching into his pocket and tossing her a gun.

Spidey leaps to the ground as she catches it and aims the gun teasingly at him. She jerks it back and makes a _pow_ noise, then giggles when he flinches.

“Who the fuck is this?” Wade demands, throwing out an arm.

“Business partner,” he answers shortly, then draws a sword. “But she’s old fashioned.”

“True”, she says, and takes a shot. Peter jumps back.

The male digs into his coat. “Satisfying 1000 degree knife vs superhero compilation,” he winks, brandishing an illuminated blade. The weapon glows bright orange, burning threateningly against the darkness. He cocks his head and stretches it out in Wade’s direction.

Deadpool looks at the sword, then at the woman.

“Take the dude!” he yells to Spidey, stampeding towards her.

Spidey hears her send off a round of bullets as he focuses his efforts on the man, swinging up into the air.

He jumps into the sky, using his webs like a pendulum to double him back around. Deadpool is walking into the fucking bullets, using his body as a human shield, until he’s close enough to grab the gun out of her hands and stuff it into his pants.

Spidey winces for him. He’s got enough healing factor to keep him going, but he can’t imagine it doesn’t hurt like a bitch to get a round in the ribs.

A pang of triumph echoes through him when he watches Wade grab her by the head and throw her against the ground. Jerking forward, Peter focuses his attention back on the first assailant, throwing out a series of webs. The man cuts through them like butter.

Spidey grimaces. He changes the game.

He crawls up his web and then flings back down, throwing a silky whip right at the blade. The strands immediately start burning, but he has enough time to jerk them forward and tear it out of the man’s hands, sending the sword clanging to the pavement with a hiss.

“Okay,” the man jeers, reaching for up his sleeve for one last trick.

He pulls out a pair of brass knuckles, fitting them around his hands. The second they hit his fingers they swell into boxing gloves, studded with spikes so impressive that Wade gets a hardon looking at them.

“I want those!” he yells, ripping the bullets out of his chest.

“You can pry them off my dead body,” the guy calls back, racing forward.

“No bodies!” Peter shouts, swinging forward.

He could play the old net-of-webs game at this point, wrap the enemy up in a cocoon of silk, and be done with it. But he wants this to be satisfying. He wants the gratification he deserves, so he swings forward and kicks the man in the face, morals be damned.

“Spidey!” Wade calls, craving popcorn. “That was awesome.”

Peter jumps to another web, circling back around. The man gets to his feet and throws a punch in his direction, but Peter zooms around it, grabbing the ground with his hands, and then jumps back into the air. He slams a knee against the man’s chest as he goes, sending him stumbling back.

A laugh bubbles out of him, releasing all of his tension.

Then his spidersense hums to life, flooding him with warmth.

Wade is staring at him, looking at him like he’s the goddess of legs and moonlight, like he’s starving for his attention. For a second, Peter thinks that Wade loves him, and then he leaps over the idea that Wade loves him, realizing with a jolt that he loves _himself_. He was _made_ to do this, he designed for this kind of flight. He loves this feeling: swinging weightlessly, filled with adrenaline, his body thrumming from Deadpool’s gaze.

He flips around, pulling webs with both his hands, and extends his feet to knock the man down with an ending blow to the forehead.

But his Spideysense is occupied by Deadpool’s gaze. He doesn’t notice when the girl stumbles to her feet, clutching her head. He’s distracted as he knocks the man unconscious by hurtling into him, laughing with exhilaration. He’s drunk on the feeling of Wade wanting to kiss him.

The girl raises the searing blade. In one motion, she cuts off both of his hands.

His first instinct is to shoot out another web and save himself from falling, but he realizes with a jolt of terror and an eruption of pain that _there’s nothing there_.

He tumbles through the air and crashes down onto the pavement, rolling until he hits a slab of concrete. He smacks into it with a sob, sucking in a breath, and then he’s screaming, clutching his arms to his chest.

“Oh my god,” Deadpool cries, racing forward, “Fuck fuck fuck fuck, _Peter._ Holy shit.” His eyes dart back and forth from the disembodied hands on the ground to Peter curled up with two arms ending in bloody stumps.

“Permission to kill her?” he begs frantically, “Permission to _fucking kill her?_ ”

Peter looks up at him, eyes clouded in shock. The world phases in and out, going dark each time he blinks. He lets out a broken sob, gasping for air, then grits his teeth and starts squealing in pain.

“Holy fuck,” he yells, pulling out the gun, then stuffs it immediately back into his pocket. He dashes towards the left, and even though it repulses every cell in his body, grabs for one of Peter’s hands. He shakily points it at both enemies and presses down on the cuffs, coating them in a blanket of webbing so thick he hopes it ““accidentally”” suffocates them both.

Then he’s skidding back to Peter, sliding to his knees.

“Oh God, kid,” he moans empathetically, grabbing both of Peter’s elbows and planting them on his chest. “That sucks, wow that sucks. Just stay still, it’s gonna be okay.”

Peter cries out and rolls helplessly, spilling blood all over himself. Reaching behind, Wade fumbles for a katana. He fishes one out of the sheath and then extends his arm, closing his eyes as he rips it through his forearm.

Now he’s bleeding too, thick drops spilling from the slice.

“Here you go, Petey,” he hums comfortingly, angling his wound over Peter’s hand until their blood is mixing, then repeats it with the other wrist. “Okay? You’re going to be okay. Just breathe through it, Webs, I’ve got you.”

That should be enough for the healing factor to do its thing, but Wade rips off both their masks anyways, wrapping them like sutures around each severed wrist.

His heart fills his mouth now that he can see Peter’s face, pale and weak and coated with sweat.

“Been in this business for how long and you’ve never lost a limb before?” he jokes dryly, already feeling his own wounds stitching themselves back together. “The regrowth process is gross, but it won’t take that long.”

He’s praying this works. It’s been a hot minute since he shared his healing factor with anyone, and the last time it was only a couple drops of blood. Tonight is going to be awful, he already knows it. The voices are already starting to play kickball with his brain.

“Wade,” Spiderman slurs. Jesus. He looks like he’s barely hanging on.

“It’s alright, let me get you somewhere safe,” he hastens, pulling Peter into his arms and getting to his feet. He pins Peter’s elbows to the center of his chest, trying to limit the amount of roughness he’s going to feel on the way home. “I can walk or I can run,” he says crazily, hugging him tight, “You decide.”

“Fast,” Peter huffs, tears streaming down his face.

Deadpool doesn’t need to be told twice. He kicks off and starts racing towards home, holding Spidey close to him.

“I know, Webs,” he whines as the younger cries out constantly at every less-than-gentle motion, “Almost there.”

He doesn’t attempt to climb the building. He takes the stairs, leaving a trail of blood in the hallway.

Peter’s almost completely unconscious by the time they hit the room, his breath coming out in shallows bursts. Wade’s almost glad, if not terrified, because at least unconsciousness is giving Peter a break from the agony.

Pain is just pain to Wade now. Shucking off the additional fear of irreparable loss and permanent damage has done wonders to his pain tolerance. It’s all that extra junk that brings true suffering. Peter is certainly suffering now.

And it’s completely his fault.

He loves Webs. He _loves_ him.

But he loves Spiderman the way he found him: balanced, lawful, stable, good.

This would have never happened to him if he’d have been alone.

Wade reached out to him and Peter was the one who lost his hands.

They will grow back.

He won’t be the same.

-

Wade tries to check up on him a couple times in the first few hours, although he doesn’t do a great job of it. He locks himself in the bathroom when he starts getting too crazy, sticking himself under a faucet of freezing cold water. It’s something about the pH level of his insane fucking internal system. He’s given up some healing factor and now his head is going crazy. He screams out, smacking the walls, and shampoo bottles rain down into the tub.

That’s when he decides he has to leave the room. Spidey needs to rest, not to be scared shitless by a man screaming at himself as he knocks down the walls.

He stumbles down to the public restrooms on the first floor, then slams himself inside a stall to wait it out the way an addict outlasts withdrawal. The second he stops fighting he knows it’s going to get bad, but he can’t thrash anymore. He curls up on the disgusting floor, wraps his arms around his knees, and lets the voices dig into him.

They show him images. Spidey contorted, Spidey mangled, Spidey broken. They show Wade doing it to him. They make him imagine it, sometimes staging it like an intrusive impulse that he can’t stop, sometimes making him think he enjoys it.

That, among an entire pallet of similar deals.

These are _his_ voices. This is _his_ brain.

No one planted it in him. No one made it in vitro and then grew it inside him. This is all natural, baby.

The torture extracted it, awakened it, and now he can’t put it back in the tube.

He presses his eyes into his knees and lets the thoughts wash over him in waves. He lets his life go dark, shutting off everything but his consciousness and his ability to listen.

Finally, at a shaky 5am stroke of the clock, he gets to his feet and heads back to check on Peter.

-

Spidey is where he left him, curled up in the dark. Wade is terrified for the briefest second that something went wrong and he’s dead, but when he steps forward, he hears the other taking short breaths in his sleep.

He sits down on the side of the bed. The black-out curtains are only pulled halfway down the window, letting in a spread of blue morning light.

Two nights ago, this bed was filled with clothes and cum, tonight it’s soaked in blood.

He swallows tears, then shakes Peter gently.

“Webs?” he asks, pressing a head to his forehead. “Can you hear me?”

Peter stirs slowly, then all at once. His body spasms for a moment as he looks wildly around the room, chest heaving.

“Shh, shh, you’re just in my bed,” he eases, pressing a stabilizing hand to Peter’s chest. “How are you feeling?”

“I don’t know,” he whispers, then grits his teeth. “Pain, ow fuck, lots of pain.”

Wade delicately drifts his fingers down to Spidey’s wrists, peeking below the shoddy bandage of masks. The skin has begun stitching itself back together, skin and bone being remade by frantic cells. He places the fabric back over it, just because he thinks it would freak Peter out even more to see its half-formed progress.

“The wound is basically healed,” he explains gently, finding his eyes in the dimness. “The healing factor is just repairing everything back its normal state right now.”

“It still hurts so bad,” he whines between his teeth.

“Well, physical trauma is its own whole thing, baby,” he hums sympathetically. “Have you really never had this happen to you before?”

Peter shakes his head, hair wet with sweat.

The voices in his head are still going at it, but Peter’s presence is powerful enough to send them to the backburner of his attention. Wade runs his eyes over the man sadly.

 _You make me better,_ he thinks. _And I make things terrible._

“I can still suck dick like this,” Peter says through clenched teeth.

Wade pauses. He looks at Webs. Then he laughs.

“Differently abled,” he comments.

They’ve only been together like this for a little more than a week. When Wade goes, he wants to pack up the sofa with him, to remember Spidey riding him with his hands clamped on the headboard. He wants to pack the takeout containers and empty bags of chips. He wants the controller with Peter’s fingerprint burned into it. The bottle of hotel sample conditioner he liked the best. The shirt Peter left in his drawer for late nights when he’d decide just not to head home. He wants to take this bed that’s absorbed Peter’s tears and semen and blood, his dreams and nightmares and midnight thoughts, his spilled guts and answered pleads.

He runs a hand fiercely through Spidey’s hair even though it makes him feel worse.

“I love you, Webs,” he says in a strained voice. “I would do anything for you.”

Peter’s eyes open again. He looks sleepy and pained, but he smiles.

“I can’t believe you ever thought you were ugly,” he says. “I love you too.”

Wade kisses him on the forehead and then waits until he goes back to sleep.

Once Webs is tucked safely in his dreams, he closes the door to his apartment, calls Peter an ambulance, and quietly leaves New York.

-

Peter’s hands grow back by the end of the next day, although it takes a week before he can touch anything without feeling squeamish and sick. It will be longer yet before he can make a new pair of web cuffs and put them around his wrists, to say nothing of actually using them. But at least he has hands again.

The first thing he does with them is knock on Wade’s apartment door.

When no one answers, he fishes out the key that Wade gave him and lets himself in.

There have been tears in his eyes for days, and this does nothing to either make them fall or dry. It's what he expected: the bed is still caked in blood. His clothes are on the floor from the night before the incident, along with the rotting corpse of the Thai leftovers they were eating that day.

His stomach turns over. He feels numb.

He knew something was wrong, but he didn’t let himself think about it until now.

His hands grew back but something else didn’t.

He felt it the second the EMTs arrived, waking him up: a loneliness that reached through him and pierced the soul of him. He knew right there and then. Now there’s an emptiness inside him, an unbelievable wrongness sitting in his center. He knew it the moment he opened his eyes.

Wade is gone.

-

Peter comes back later that night.

His hands are still too weak for complex tasks. He can’t light a match or sew a button or get change out of the pouch in his wallet. But he can hold down the button on a camera.

Deadpool broke (and lost) his favorite one, but recently, looking for a bathrobe, he dug a paper box out of his closet and found it filled with old photographs. On top of the envelopes and newspapers was his beatup, silver Bugle camera, lying right next to its old USB charger.

It makes a tinkling noise as it powers on. The arrow buttons are so dainty and small that he has no hope for activating flash, but he’ll be okay with the apartment’s lighting.

There are things all around this city. Spiderwebs and secret murals, shapes in the sidewalk and patterns in the flow of traffic. And then there’s Deadpool’s apartment. He takes photos of all the precious, small things that he needs to hold onto. No one else knows the meaning packed into these images. There is no one to appreciate them. When Wade doesn’t pay his rent, someone will come in here and hold their nose before throwing everything away. But Peter will keep all of it, tucked away in a folder on his computer.

-

The trauma has died down with the passage of a few months, although the mental aspect has been harder to shake.

Peter is swinging through the city for the first time since the accident, going slow. Within minutes, however, he’s gotten his sea legs back.

He’s flying through the air. He laughs out loud, exhilarated as the summer wind whips his hair back. It feels so good to get his body stretched out again, to feel it bend and curve the way it was meant to.

He shoots a web up and launches himself up high, suspending himself in the air. Then he lets himself fall, catching himself before he hits the ground.

An above-ground subway cart rattles past and he jumps on top of it, flattening as it rumbles back underground.

The subterranean station is as pungent and dirty as it is in New York, but as he grabs onto the ceiling and swings onto the nearest platform, he doesn’t mind the smell. Or the sight.

On a concrete bench, swallowed up in a giant hoodie and bulky headphones, Wade is curled in a nook with his back to the wall, staring unseeingly at the passing trains. Peter's entire spirit flips inside of him. His instincts were right. Wade is right where Peter felt he would be.

Peter pulls off his mask (someone could see, but this is Boston, and they don’t care about him out here). He walks forward, hearing the whoosh of the train as it catches up to him and rushes by. He nervously wrings the mask in his hands.

Deadpool’s eyes glance over him loosely. Then recognition lights up his face. He yanks the headphones off his ears and scrambles into a sitting position.

“Webs?” he asks in a shaky voice. “What the fuck? Is this a dream?”

“No,” he laughs. “Pinch yourself, you selfish fuck. Or actually, let me slap you.”

“This _is_ a dream,” he mumbles, eyes sweeping over the ground.

“It’s not.”

“I didn’t- How did you know where I was?”

Peter cocks his head and rolls his shoulders back, stretching after that bout of exercise. He smiles and feels the quiet thrum of his spidersense as it backs down now that Wade is only a few feet away. He sits down, passing his eyes over Wade’s body. He missed him. He fucking missed him.

“I already told you,” he growls, tearing off his gloves and grabbing Wade’s face in two firm hands. He kisses him, saying fuck you to whoever’s watching, and an even bigger fuck you to whatever made Wade think he had to leave.

Every time Peter has shrugged him off or fought him away or given him the cold shoulder, Wade has reached back for him.

Peters sees him, he really sees him for who is now. So he’s the one reaching this time. And he finally has the fucking hands to do it.

From afar, Wade was soundless. Off the grid. But when they mixed blood and Peter took some of his healing factor into his veins, it swapped digits with his spidersense. It let him feel where Wade was, and he followed it here on instinct alone. Now the entire sensation goes quiet. It has nowhere else to lead him. He’s home.

“It’s not echolocation,” he reminds Wade, drinking in the sight of his beautiful face. “I can sense you.”


End file.
